The cursor on Amelia's laptop blinked, a mocking metronome keeping pace with the frantic hammering in her chest. She scrolled again, the listing's photos a nauseating slideshow of her past. The chipped paint on the porch swing, the overgrown rose bushes her mother had cherished, the absurdly small window in her old bedroom – all laid bare, for sale. A wave of dizziness washed over her. She gripped the edge of the kitchen table, knuckles white. "It's just a house," she muttered, the words sounding thin and brittle.
She got up and paced the length of her small apartment, a prisoner in her own restlessness. Her phone lay abandoned on the counter. She’d promised to call her sister, to arrange a visit. Now, the thought of small talk, of forced cheerfulness, seemed an insurmountable obstacle. The photographs still swam in her vision. The house… it was a wound, freshly reopened.
She stared out the window, the city lights blurring through unshed tears. The listing agent's flowery prose about "charming character" and "endless potential" grated on her nerves. Endless potential for what? More heartbreak? She sank onto the couch, feeling the familiar weight of exhaustion settle over her, heavy as lead.